AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Before I have time to respond, or even to react, his hand jets up and he sits forward in his desk, mouth quiet. Mr. Philips reads two names before glancing in Cameron’s direction and seeing his call for help.
“Mr. Hass, whatever could it be?” he asks. I sink down slightly in my desk, suddenly not so confident that I’m right.
Cameron clears his throat but leans in, hands folded on top of his desk, heels crossed underneath.
“Sir, you have some ink on your nose. It’s rather blue, and I thought you would want to know.” That’s it. A simple courtesy extended with respectful intent. This scene between any other two people might go my way, but this is Cameron Hass. And he was bloody right.
“I’ll be sure to rush out to the teacher’s lounge in search of a mirror, Mr. Hass. Why, thank you for this very unnecessary distraction. Perhaps you would get more out of spending this hour up front seeing what help Karen may need while you wait to talk to the headmaster.” Mr. Philips hasn’t moved from his spot since he called on Cameron, and he hasn’t once touched his nose.
“Is this an optional suggestion?” Cameron says, glancing my way briefly and lifting his brows.
“It is not,” Mr. Philips says, tearing a pink sheet from the small pad on his clipboard.
Cameron looks down at his desk with a tight smile, nodding—and laughing silently, though I think only I can tell. He gathers his things and steps to the front of the class, taking the pink slip without even making eye contact with our teacher.
“Thank you, sir,” he says, prompting Mr. Philips to sigh and push his glasses up again, leaving another mark. The entire class rumbles with choked laughter, and as Cameron pushes his back into the door, his eyes meet mine, his mouth very clearly forming the wordmocha.
My head falls to my desk with a thump as he slips through the door on his way to the office.How did I get that one so wrong?
“All right, history of the stock market. Let us first look at the East India Company in the sixteen hundreds,” Mr. Philips begins.
My classmates shuffle papers around me. I grasp my phone to return it to my bag as I reach in for my notebook, but it buzzes before I let go. Glancing up, I scan to make sure Mr. Philips is still facing the white board. I assume it’s Cameron texting me to gloat on his way to the headmaster’s office. I pause when I see it’s actually a message from my dad.
Pulling the phone up to my desk, I tap my father’s message open and slide my phone under the shield of my notebook. My pulse fires away as my body rushes with anxious tingles, and I’m not certain whether I’m all of a sudden worried or scared. My dad is at a summit in Canada, and he doesn’t divide his time to send me messages when he’s working. Not unless it’s something truly important. A death, maybe. Legal trouble? Something with mom or my brother?
I feel faint, so before my panic fully takes hold of my body, I bend the edge of my notebook and read my father’s message.
DAD:You and Cameron Hass cannot be connected.
My heart drops. No beat. My skin feels sticky with instant flop sweats. My fingertip hovers over the keyboard to type backwhy?But I know I can’t. He wouldn’t answer that question anyhow, not in a text. And I know why. Because Cameron’s dad is in prison, and my dad is running for Congress.
Chapter10
Cameron
That bet I made with Brooklyn was almost unfair.
Mr. Philips and I have a long history of me pushing his buttons just a little too far. It started my first day in the Welles cafeteria. He was the teacher on duty, and well, I had quite literally consumed my weight in orange-flavored Hi-C mixed with a dash of Sprite and Dr. Pepper. I started an unsanctioned game of tag in the lunchroom that resulted in several tossed trays of food and one Morgan Bentley with a lap covered in Yoo-hoo. It all culminated in me standing in front of Mr. Philips, awaiting my sentence, then suddenly vomiting a gallon of my soda-machine concoction onto his shoes. The self-serve drink dispenser was removed from the cafeteria by the end of the week, and Mr. Philips has had trust issues with me ever since.
I knew he wasn’t over the boxer shorts ordeal. I could have coughed too loudly and gotten myself sent to the office.
When I texted Brooklyn before football practice and told her to meet me at the same trail as last time, I had a feeling she was relieved I wasn’t messaging to delight in all the drinks she will have to carry up and down Congress Street tomorrow morning. She’s not going to like my gift for her when she gets here, though. She might even throw a punch my way. I’ll take it. This growing connection between us has been the one thing I look forward to when I wake up every morning. I started making mental notes throughout my day of stories to tell her whenever we’re alone. And I’m also constantly searching for ways to be alone. There’s something about her personal attention, of having her all to myself, that feels . . . special, I guess. It’s more than the crush I’ve had for years. I feel a freedom when I’m with her, like it’s okay to be myself and tell her things. I told her about my dad, and what shocked me is I didn’t regret it at all. In fact, I’m dying to tell her more. I just wish she’d get here.
I leap down from the middle of the rock wall, my feet landing in athudon the ground. My bag is packed with the harnesses as well as some spare clothes in case I can talk her into trying something else tonight. I pull my phone from my bag and check for missed messages, but there’s nothing but the notice that she read my text about tonight.
She’s fifteen minutes late, which is odd for her. Brooklyn Bennet has a schedule for everything. She even has one at parties, knowing exactly how long she’ll stay out, how much she’ll let herself drink, and what time she needs to be in bed to get up and be responsible in the morning. Maybe she forgot to text me that she couldn’t come tonight.
Scratching my head, I start to type a message to her, asking if she’s all right or wants to skip it tonight. I delete two attempts before finally dropping my phone in my bag and pacing in circles as I let out a growling sigh. I look desperate. Needy.
Because you are, dumbass.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she wheezes, breathing hard as her feet slow to a walk.
My chest expands as if I’ve been holding my breath for hours and am nearly dead. I practically bound over to her but stop myself short of picking her up and swinging her around in my arms.
Christ, Cameron. Get a grip!
“I was starting to worry you got lost,” I lie. Sort of. I mean, that thought did cross my mind but only as an excuse to keep myself from believing she stood me up or is flat-out avoiding me.
